


His Dark Side

by PeeDeeTee



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flirting, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeeDeeTee/pseuds/PeeDeeTee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Phil Coulson's dark side emerges after his after-life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Happens in London, Stays in London.

**Author's Note:**

> My first fan fiction due to my frustration of a lack of Coulson/May romances. Chapter one is flirting and conversation, but it's going to get mighty smutty mighty fast in succeeding chapters. And a little dark, hence the title. 
> 
> The inordinate amount of slash Coulson fic also helped me put this together, as I am a huge fan of Coulson getting it on with females. :P
> 
> I am also deeply in lust with Clark Gregg, who I have been a fan of since his work on The New Adventures of Old Christine, where he played a lovable, constantly horny schmuck. Imagine my delight when he landed this role - bad-ass dressed in Dolce and Gabbana. 'Twas a wet-dream come almost-true. Hahaha! Enjoy! 
> 
> This chapter is rated for Teens and Up, but succeeding chapters will go from smut to explicit smut. You have been warned.

LONDON

  
  
  


"There's a difference between what you think you want, and what you need."

Melinda May leans back, swirling the remains of her drink before taking another sip. 

In some bar in London, she and Coulson are unwinding after seven gruelling days of world-saving.  It is a favorite Phil Coulson haunt due to its proximity to his flat; given by Tony Stark as a welcome-back-to-the-living gift, which was upon the insistence of Pepper Potts who is very fond of him (Phil, not Tony). 

Although SHIELD agents are strictly forbidden to accept gifts or donations of any kind, Director Fury did not have much of a choice but to make an exception.   "He took one for the team and came back from the dead," said Tony Stark on Director Fury's personal line.  The same line not even the President of the United States had access to.  "You can make an exception."

And before Director Nick Fury (who took shit from no one) could even raise an objection, Tony Stark once again interjected with, "Pepper wants to give it to him.  We aren't using it anymore.  Giving the flat to Coulson will make Pepper happy.  And when Pepper is happy, I'm happy."  Click, went the line.  And that was that. 

Friends with Tony Stark - good.  Favorite go-to-guy of Pepper Potts - best.

So in the dark, somewhat smoky pub they sit.  In a large corner booth that they had shared with the rest of the team, who had retired hours ago from sheer exhaustion.  May and Coulson might've been the oldest, but they were certainly the hardiest among the bunch.  After just one round of drinks, the little ones all unanimously decided to head back to The Bus pronto.

And so May is chewing on the last statement uttered at the table.   It's been about an hour since everyone else has left.  And she and Coulson have discussed everything from new tax laws, hypoallergenic dogs, Buddhism and now... her sex life with Ward.  She's still wondering how they ended up at that particular topic, but she is sure it wasn't Phil who brought it up.  That wasn't Coulson's style.  So May comes to the conclusion that subconsciously, she has steered the conversation to this topic because she wants to talk about it with him.  The only person in the whole world, nay - the whole universe - that she TRUSTS.

"Not to me, there isn't." she says.  "I only want what I need."  She has told this to herself often enough that she believes it.

Phil, who had his forearms on the heavy wooden table, leans back into the plush leather backrest and crosses them over his chest.  He smiles, but it quickly vanishes.  "And what is it you think you  need, May?" he asks.

She is quiet.  She wants to give him an honest answer.  Honest to him, and honest to herself.  The burden of everything that's happened in the last couple of years has been weighing down on her more and more.  She's been putting up a good front and dealt with a lot of her issues on her own, exactly the way she likes it.  But there is only so much the human spirit can do in so little time.  "Are we talking about relationships?" she asks.

Phil shrugs.  "Sure."

Again, May is stumped for an answer.  She needs to buy some time to think this over.  She looks at Phil, who looks right back at her.  The first three buttons of his shirt are undone, his tie stuffed into his coat pocket.   She has always found Phil attractive, is more fond of him than she should be; but she, like Phil, is smart enough to keep feelings like that deep, deep, deep down inside where no one can see or touch or feel them. 

But there is nothing dangerous about acknowledging the man sitting across the seat from her is particularly hot tonight, is there?  That train of thought might be even more dangerous than _not_ thinking her answer through.  Whew, how many drinks had she had?!

_What was I_ _thinkin' 'bout again? Oh, yeah._ "Long story short, I don't want a relationship.  Ward is ok with that.  Ward and I have - HAD sex.  It's... stress-release."

" 'Had?' " asks Coulson.

"Last time was 5 weeks ago. "  She shrugs.  "It became tiresome."

Phil analyzes the abrupt change in her demeanor, her body language, and his vault of Melinda May memories.  He isn't quite sure if she is ready for the truth, or if she's ready to hear the truth from _him_. 

"Why did it become tiresome, Phil?" she asks, addressing him by his first name.  Reserved exclusively for serious talks, so that he knows without another word that this is off-the-record, between just her and him, and will be added to all their other confidential, Phil and Melinda only, anything goes conversations. 

Phil eyes her, sitting an arm's length away from him in her usual all-black garb, body-hugging everything, showing off every curve outfit.  Her cheeks are a little flushed from the alcohol, but her hair remains forever coiffed, falling softly down to her shoulders as if she's about to walk on to the set of a shampoo commercial.  He has known Melinda for far too long to still have these very primal urges to throw her down and pound himself into her.  But his penchant for strong, independent women has always been both a source of pride and migraines.  Working for SHIELD, alpha females abound.  And they are never in short supply.  But among the whole pool of them to choose from, Melinda May is by far, the quintessential strong and independent woman that has driven him to many cold showers.  

And now, here she sits, asking him for advice. 

Sex advice. 

The gods of Asgard must be in need of a good laugh.  It's the kind of thing Loki would be slapping his thigh over.

_I can see the top curve of her breast._ "Because you're looking for fulfillment in boys, Melinda."

Her eyebrow raises.  "Ward is hardly a boy." 

Coulson knows she is not inferring Ward's dick size.  God forbid he be part of this conversation if she was.  He also knows she knows exactly what he means. He's hit the nail on the head.  But he must tread lightly, lest he say something that brings her defenses up.  This is unlikely to happen between them, but he still wants to keep her in her safe zone.  She's been through enough combat in every sense of the word already. 

"By any other woman's standard, he isn't.  But you aren't any other woman."

"Enough with Bahrain, already," she says, on the verge of exasperation.  Shrink after shrink, therapist after therapist, would prattle on and on and on about how things "changed" after Bahrain.  She didn't think Phil would read from the same script.

"I wasn't referring to Bahrain.  Let me finish," he says gently.  "I knew you when you were fresh out of the academy.  When you pulled pranks, went out for drinks, saw movies and talked about inane things like the latest Disney child actor going off the deep-end."

May grins.  She knows remembers the exact conversation he's referring to.  Good times.

"Even then, you were different.  You had so many layers underneath the surface that I'd never seen before with anyone else.  And just when I thought I was close to getting to your core, I would discover I was wrong."  He places a hand on her shoulder.  It's a light touch.  Reassuring, calming. 

She looks back at him.  He gently pulls her towards him so that she is leaning against him.  She resists, but it's fleeting.  She doesn't like this level of intimacy, but with Phil... she can do it with Phil.  Phil her boss, confidant, friend, support system, comrade-in-arms.  Phil Coulson is the _only_ person she can do this with.  Plus, he smells wonderfully clean and masculine and is oh-so-warm.

He puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in closer.  Her hair smells like lavender.  She is tiny and the top of her head fits nicely under his chin.  He is caught off-guard by how soft she is.  He had always assumed May would be all hard and sleek muscle, so he wonders how she can still feel distinctly and unmistakably feminine. 

"I never knew you were trying to get to my 'core'," she says.  She isn't offended.  In fact, she finds it a bit flattering.  Was it the alcohol or her long-standing passive attraction to him that has her feeling almost like a school girl?

He adjusts his torso so he gets juuuust a little bit more contact from her back.  Now, they are an almost perfect fit.  "I tend to psychoanalyze women I find attractive," he murmurs.  _Oh shit, did I say that out loud?_

Melinda isn't quite sure she's heard that right.  She felt him tense just a wee bit after he said it, leading her to believe he either didn't mean to say it or meant something else.  She decides to brush it off.  Besides, she is zoning in on something else she wants from Phil Coulson.  He's a remarkable character reader.  It was one of his talents that shot him to Level 8 in so short a time.  She could also verify rumors that occasionally, the FBI would consult him to help profile serial killers.  She turns her head to look up at him.  For leverage, her hand ends up on his inner thigh, but she doesn't realize it.

Phil does though.  Very much.

"Can I ask you something?" she asks, genuinely curios.

He takes a swig of his bourbon.  "Sure," he replies.  He hides the wince that comes along with the burning alcohol down his throat.

"Why do you think I slept with Ward?  Let me re-phrase... why do you think I had sex with Ward?"

"Why did you re-phrase?" he asks.  His hand has migrated to her hip.  It's just more comfortable there.  He was losing blood circulation when it was on the backrest.

"I can't even say we slept together.  He slept, I... stared at the ceiling and watched TV for the most part."

"Why?" he asks, curious she would include that last bit of information.

"...why, what?"

"Did he sleep and you end up watching television."  He already knows the answer, but he wants to hear it from her.  He knows that she needs to acknowledge it and say it out loud to hear it for herself.

Melinda takes a deep breath.  Her fingers busily fiddle with an already shredded napkin.  "You know I have trust issues," she says.  She can't believe she's said it out loud.  But the only ears the information goes into are Phil Coulson's, and that's as good as sticking them into an abyss.  "That, and the... you know.  The other thing."

Coulson doesn't say anything.  He knows what the "other thing" is.  He has "the other thing" too.  After Melinda's Bahrain and his Loki-Scepter incident, "the other thing" is the inability to sleep through the night without waking up in a cold sweat, heart beating out of your chest, and the overwhelming feeling that you are once again about to die.  He and Melinda May are part of this very exclusive club neither really wanted to be a member of.  Such were the sacrifices one had to make when saving the world was in the daily grind.  But she's already raised her defenses when it comes to Bahrain.  He would re-introduce the idea again later instead.

He genuinely feels for her.  He wouldn't wish this curse on his worst enemy.  He chuckles to himself.

May looks at him, startled.  "What's so funny?"

He chuckles again.  "We are," he says.  "We're funny."

She twists and sits up to glare at him.  "And how the fuck do you figure that?" she asks.

Her expletive makes him chuckle all the harder.  "Christ almighty, May.  How many people in this bar - no, scratch that - in this town, in this _city_ \- do you think have _died and come back to life?_   Let me take a wild guess here... TWO.  And both of them are sitting at this. Fucking. Table."

Melinda May starts to giggle.  It turns into a laugh.  And then it is a hearty, hearty laugh that sounds like music to Phil Coulson's ears.  He hasn't heard her laugh in years, and he has never heard her laugh like this.  He feels like a million bucks.

The laughter dies.  Phil stops before Melinda does.  By the time she stops laughing, Phil is gazing at her, that boyish and mischievous smirk in place.  And Melinda May does something else she hasn't done in years besides laugh.  She blushes.

And Phil Coulson gets a hard-on.  "You're gorgeous," he says.  "But you already know that."  His voice is low and serious.  And sensuous. 

"Shut up, Phil." she says.  She has never told her boss to shut up.  But she is using her first-name-conversation exemption clause, so it's ok.  Besides, what else do you say when bad-ass, legendary SHIELD agent Phil Coulson pays you a compliment like that?  And honestly speaking, it wasn't so much the persona of Coulson that was getting her hot right now, it was _him_.  Plain and simple.  Those damn dimples had always been her undoing.  And now that intense tone. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

They are silent for a moment before Phil quietly says, "Come here, Melinda."

And without a word, she does.  She closes the space between them, and she is now sitting even closer to him than before.  "I can tell you the truth," he says.  "Do you want that?"

She nods.

He lowers his voice so that only she can hear him.  Her back is to his chest, thigh-to-thigh.  He is so close that she can feel his warm breath on her ear.  His hand has settled back on her hip.  "You sleep with men who are alphas and then make them submissive to your wants so that you can convince yourself you have control."

_Boom._ All it took was one sentence from Phil Coulson. _God damn, he was good.  Ugh._

"Prior to Bahrain, you enjoyed sex with your equals.  Men who respected you as a woman , who were generous, yet worshipped your individuality.  You enjoyed tender lovemaking, indulged a bit in cuddling, but even then you were smart enough to remain emotionally detached." Phil is paying very close attention to her body language.  She has not tensed at all.  On the contrary, she seems to be melting into him.  
  
"Go on," she wispers. She feels a warmth spreading through her, coming from her core.  How can being psyhoanalyzed by Phil Coulson arouse her like this?  Was there something wrong with her?  Or was it just knowing that Phil knew her  _that well_ , that he thought of her that way?  This enigma of a man, respected, feared, the stuff legends were made of and yet... was mortal?  _  
_

He lowers his voice just a little more.  "Remember when you told me I changed because I died?"

She nods.  

"So did you.  Now,  you like turning these seemingly aggressive males into your submissive little puppies.  But guess what, Melinda?"

Her breathing has become deeper.  The warmth that was spreading over her is rapidly becoming a fire.

"None of them will ever really satisfy you.  You want to be in charge. But what you  _need_ , Melinda, is -"

"You."


	2. It's Getting Hot In Here

 

 

Any other woman would have cringed at the all-too-honest confession.  Not Melinda May.  She takes what she wants and takes it when she wants it. When you've stepped into The Great Beyond and manage to step back, you realize petty shit like that has no place in your re-life.  And at this moment in her life, she wants very badly to fuck Phil Coulson.   
  
He smiles. That unnerving, boyish, mischievous grin that makes May realize she is not immune to his charm.  She presses herself back to him, tilts her head up and angles it so that she can nuzzle him.  She expects he will flinch, or sputter about how this is inappropriate and why this is a bad idea.  

But he doesn't.  In fact, it seems as though he expected her confession all along.

He doesn't say a word.  His hand, which has been resting on her hip, languidly moves over it - up and down, up and down.  Their lips are mere centimeters apart, just a breath away. She loves inhaling his exhales; there is something so intimate about it, so private.  

His fingers ease underneath the hem of her shirt, just so that the tips touch her flesh.  The moment they do, her breathing quickens and she squirms against him.  And still, neither initiates a kiss.   
  
A grinning, unapologetic waiter comes and clears his throat.  "Sorry sir, bar's closing up," he says.

Coulson and May don't even look up.  He is staring at her mouth, she is staring at his eyes.  He nudges her, indicating they are going to stand up now and she does.  Fluidly, they get up and Phil reaches into his trousers and throws £100 on the table.  He takes her hand in his, interlacing their fingers and gives them a firm squeeze.  Gently, he leads her out of the bar and to his car.  He opens the door for her, and she slides in. 

Melinda May is more aroused than she has ever been in her whole life.  The ride to Coulson's pad makes it worse.  His hand has taken residence on her thigh.  She squirms against it, hoping for more contact, but he doesn't  give in.  She dreads that at any moment, he will enumerate why this is a bad idea, how it is against SHIELD protocol and how by engaging in such kind of relations, they are potentially endangering the rest of the team.  But in the 12 minutes it takes to get to their destination traveling at 102 mph, he says nothing.  Just keeps his hand on her thigh, and nothing more.

They arrive at the apartment building.  It's luxurious but very private and low-key.  Two large and burly men in uniform tip their caps off to Coulson and murmur their greetings as they open the massive wooden and brass doors for them.  Phil leads her through the lobby, fingers interlaced again, and into the elevator foyer.  Melinda is  wondering when he is going to kiss her, because it feels like any moment now, she is going to explode from the anticipation.  The doors open and they step in, she cannot wait for the damn doors to close again. 

The damn doors do not close.  A group of four very drunk and noisy female revelers step in, all laughing and giggling and it takes every ounce of self-restraint from Melinda May not to knock them all out to kingdom come.  She doesn't even realize how loud her sigh of frustration is until she is gently tugged towards the back of the elevator where Coulson is leaning against, between his legs.  His hand possessively settles around her waist, drawing her into a very intimate embrace.   She feels his arousal pressing into her backside and she presses back, letting him know she feels him.  His cheek is by the side of her temple for a beat before he dips his head to kiss first the tip of her ear, then the ball of her shoulder.

The four very noisy drunks are completely oblivious to the two agents as the elevator finally lets them off at the 11th floor.  They are finally alone and May tries to turn for a kiss, but Coulson holds her steadfast. 

"Shhhh...." he whispers gently against her ear.

May quiets down.  She is not used to not getting what she wants, and this is rapidly feeling like she is not in control. But it's _Phil Coulson_. She trusts him and wants him, and maybe this time around, new is good.  
  
The elevator pings at the penthouse and the doors open.  There is an ante room that leads to two massive wooden doors.  A seductive female voice says, "Welcome back, Agent Coulson. Nice to see you after 3 months, 4 days and 8 hours."   

"Who the hell is that?" asks Melinda.

Coulson's eyes shut for a moment. "That's Adelaide.  She came with the apartment. Adelaide, say hi," he replies.  He had forgotten all about the snarky computerized housekeeper.  The doors gently swing open and they walk in. 

"Hello," says Adelaide politely.  There is a pause and it sounds to May that she is being assessed.

"Will you be requiring medical assistance, Agent Coulson?" Adelaide asks. 

"Medical assistance?" a bewildered Phil asks.  "No, why do you ask?"

"My readings indicate elevated body temperatures for both you and your female companion. If you aren't experiencing fever, does that mean -" 

"No, we don't need any medical attention, thank you," Phil dryly replies.  Leave it to Tony Stark to leave behind Jarvis' snarkier younger sister with the apartment.  

He leads May into the living room, his hand lingering on the small of her back, his thumb lightly caressing her spine.  She steps into his personal space and is about to put her arms around him when Adelaide interrupts.

"Agent Coulson, would you like me to adjust the room temperature and play appropriate ambient music?" 

"Yes, Adelaide.  That. Would be great," says Phil, in his most sarcastic tone. "And if you could be a dear and shut the hell up for the rest of the night, or until I specifically ask for you - whichever comes first - that would be awesome."

May is in Phil's arms now and is giggling into his chest.  Her arms have snaked their way around his waist and she is holding on tight, trying to muffle her laughter.  At the same time she is very much enjoying his clean, masculine scent and the heat pulsing off his body.  

"Understood, Agent Coulson," says Adelaide. "Goodnight, sir. _Madame._ "  The last word is dripping with snootiness. There is a two-toned beep, then a second of silence before soft music starts to play.

May looks up from her hiding space in Phil's chest. "She's jealous," she says. 

He nuzzles her nose and gives her a soft kiss on the chin.  "She was being a pain." He takes her coat off and slips out of his, throwing them onto the huge sofa in the living room before escorting her to the massive bedroom, which normally elicits gasps for its view and decor from first time visitors.  But all Melinda can see right now is Phil Coulson, and all she can think of is satisfying the burning he has kindled inside her.    
  
The room is softly lit, and the music from the living room has followed them inside. Adele is singing, but neither of them can make out the lyrics nor do they care.  The king-sized bed looks promising to May, she will enjoy riding Phil on it very much.  That is, if he would like that.  Because if anything has become apparent, it's that Phil Coulson is very much in charge of this seduction, and she is here as his submissive. 

It's frightening, thrilling, intimidating and exciting all at the same time.

"Sit down on the bed, Melinda," he says.  When she obeys, he leaves her for a few seconds and opens a drawer in one of the nightstands.  He takes something out, comes back, and stands between her legs and shows her a black satin night mask.  He rolls his sleeves up to hi forearms.

"You aren't in charge anymore," he says.  He places the mask over her head and covers her eyes.

May does not object.  Engulfed in total darkness, she sways willingly to Phil lowering her gently onto the bed, one of his knees between her legs.  

"Do you understand me?" he asks.

She nods.

He lays almost completely on top of her and his hand begins to roam, slipping over and under clothes, over her overly-sensitized nipples, her heated pussy. She cannot see anything, just feel, and it is the most erotic experience of her life.  She may not see him, but she senses all of him.  The soft brush of his clothes against hers, the deep and ragged breaths coming from his lungs, the soft rasp of his stubble against her cheek and forehead.  

His hands explore the length of each of her arms before slipping them underneath her.

"Do you want me, Melinda?" he asks.  

She nods.  "Yes," she says.  "Please." 

He kisses her softly, gently.  "Please, what?"

"Take me," she implores. His fingers snap her pants open and his index finger presses against her clit.  May jerks her hips up; it feels as though a jolt of electricity has zinged through her.  His finger moves lazily over her pussy.  Up and down, up and down, swirling her juices over her mound.  He kisses her again with maddening little nips as he takes his time to bring her to the edge and back.  He dips inside her, but ever so shallowly, so she is forced to growl against his mouth and she feels him smile.

"You're soaked," he says.  His finger goes in just a little deeper this time.  "It feels as though you've already cum, but I know you haven't."  

"I haven't," she responds, wanting to please him.  She opens her mouth and arches her back.  "Please..." she begs again, seeking out his mouth.  It feels as though she will orgasm just from his kiss at this point.  They are still both fully clothed, but she is putty in his hands.  She longs to feel his heated flesh, his tongue in her mouth and his hard cock inside her.  

"Please fuck you?" he asks, going deeper now inside her pussy, and a little faster.  He touches a very hidden and secret spot May never even knew existed, and his mastery of how it likes to be touched sends May into an as-of-yet undiscovered stratosphere in her consciousness. 

She nods vigorously, there are no words anymore.  Her arms, still trapped behind her, manage to escape and encircle his neck, pulling him down just as he presses on her clit with his thumb, triggering her first orgasm.   

"Oh, god... _Phil_!!" she cries, as she arches her back violently and assaults his mouth, thrusting her tongue inside, sweeping the warm cavern, drinking all that she can as wave after wave crashes down on her.   He holds her steady, his strong arms riding her through it, reciprocating with his mouth, taking her ragged breaths into his. 

Eventually, she calms down and her breathing returns to normal.  His hands resume skimming over her, and he gently takes the mask off, but her eyes remain closed from exhaustion.  He kisses her forehead, her nose, her cheeks and her lips.  His tongue softly intrudes into her mouth, not demanding at all... Just letting her know he is there.  Melinda opens her mouth wider, greedy for the contact, and one of her hands encircles his forearm, enjoying the warm and sweaty flesh, because they are still fully clothed.

They kiss languidly, breathing each other in.  Melinda has never enjoyed kissing like this.  It is _too_ intimate for her, _too_ familiar.  But having been deprived of it during most of their foreplay has her wanting it, and Phil is... he is a master at it.  His lips are so soft, his tongue artful.  And the way he touches her... the kissing and the touching are a symphony working in perfect synchronicity.  Is this what she had been missing all along with her flings with those... boys?

She never knew it could be this divine.  There is a hum coursing through her, keeping her at a level of arousal she knows won't be sated soon.  She hopes Phil has been taking his vitamins and that all those hours she has seen him on the treadmill are going to pay off.  All this while their clothes are still on, and she's gotten off from just his hands.  The anticipation is going to kill her.

"I enjoyed that," he murmurs against her mouth.

This is enough to make her open her eyes.  " _You_ enjoyed that?" she asks incredulously. She raises her thigh so that it brushes against his hardness, and pulls him back down to resume the kissing.  

"I did.  Everything about it was enjoyable," he says.  His hand begins to unbutton her shirt.  "Your mouth, the way you respond, your wetness, the way you said my name."  He slips her shirt off, reaches behind her, and unclasps her bra.  His palm cups her breast and squeezes it, and brings her very erect nipple up to his lips.  He licks and sucks at the pointed nub as his hands busily but leisurely remove the rest of her clothes.  

All of this is done at a maddening pace that Melinda is positive has been conceived for the sole purpose of driving her to insanity.   Finally, she is completely naked.  Her hands reach up to undo his shirt.  

He flinches and grabs her wrists, hard.  "Don't," he says harshly.  His eyes are ablaze. 

"I know it's there," she says softly.  "I've seen it."

His breathing becomes ragged, and he squeezes his eyes shut.  He is fighting something inside him; an urge to lash out and hurt.  But not her.  Never her.

Melinda very slowly undoes a button, then another.  "It's there for a reason," she says.  She kisses the exposed flesh, right above the scar.

"It's a constant reminder how damaged I am," he says.  So softly that she almost doesn't hear him.

"I _like_ damaged," she says.  " _I'm_  damaged."  His shirt is completely open now.  She sees the angry, jagged lines up close.  She touches it, tracing the lines,wishing she could make it go away.

Phil watches her like a hawk, just waiting for any sign of pity or condescension, even if he knows he will never get either from Melinda May.   He is too used to being on the receiving end of both emotions when people see it, that he fleetingly forgets the very naked woman in his arms is as close to fucked up as he is in many, many ways as any one will ever get.  All he wants to do right now is fuck her, make it truly good for her, and get his own rocks off because it's been pretty damn long for him.   

She is hot and pulsing in his arms, and making little sounds at the back of her throat.  He wanted to take it slow and savor every second.  His life and hers are complicated - this could be the only time they will ever be able to fuck - but dammit, he can't wait any longer.  Contrary to popular belief, he is just a man, after all.

He casts away whatever hesitation he may have about letting Melinda see his scar.  And by the way she is caressing the damn thing, it could very well be an actual turn-on for her.  And oh, okay... She's kissing  it and licking it, and her hands are very busily unbuckling his belt.    

She reaches in and grips his hard cock, stroking it and squeezing it, and bites Phil on the chin.

He bites her on the neck in return.  Her jugular, to be exact.  And May tilts her head, giving him more access, showing her subservience to him by exposing such a vulnerable part of her.  He knows instinctively she has never done this for any of her lovers.    
  
Just him.

The gesture doesn't escape Coulson, nor do the consequences and implications.

Melinda May is his for the taking.  Body, mind, and soul.

 


	3. Domination.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the smut!
> 
> Kids.... Go to your room.

Phil Coulson has never been in a dominant-submissive relationship before, sexual or otherwise. But he is finding it fucking pleasurable and irresistible, and is a bit taken aback at how he instinctively knows what to do, like a shark to a hunt. He wonders if this is yet another bi-product of his somewhat extended foray into death and back, because he can't recall a time in his life prior to that, that he wanted this badly to dominate a woman and make her his.

He's always been good at reading people. Known what to say to get results and answers, which questions to ask and what makes people tick. It is a remarkable talent without question, but it seems to have taken a darker turn since his re-birth.

It was odd, really. In the grand scheme, he feels as though he has softened. His whole career in SHIELD was about getting results, following protocol and orders, completing missions above and beyond the call of duty, pleasing his bosses and getting the job done, and done right. There were only two kinds of outcome - success and failure. And Phil Coulson rarely ever failed.

But since "Tahiti", things have changed. Tahiti is code for the messed-up procedures he underwent, for one. For another, things are no longer black and white. He's learned about a vast valley in between filled with shades of gray. And if at one very long phase in his life Melinda May was either in the black or white, she was now most definitely in the gray.

_Fuck Tahiti. Fuck protocol._

She is underneath him, whimpering and writhing while she milks his cock. Her other hand is clawing at his back while he bites down on her neck. She chants his name, begs him to do things, pleads with him to tell her what he wants. He knows the orgasm he has given her has reduced her to this quivering mass, the almost-pinnacle of his carefully laid-out seduction. He won't be surprised in the least if it's her first orgasm ever. His instincts are telling him that Melinda is deeply intellectual - much more so than anyone but he can understand. That sex for her is not about just a physical connection, but a mental one as much. And though she denies Bahrain had any long-lasting effects on her besides a few scars and nightmares, Phil will get her to admit to herself later on that it messed with her sexual psychology.

Melinda May is confused, and yet... There is nothing clearer to her than the fact that she wants Phil Coulson to take her in every way imaginable. Do things to her she has never let anyone else, and make her do things she has never done. It is the _why_ that has her confused. She has never before wanted a lover to enjoy her, to be pleased with her or appreciate her. No, that was not Melinda May.

Until now.

She has finally gotten a hold of his cock and it's so very hard. She's inordinately pleased at this; she has aroused him to this level of excitement. He shows her how he likes being stroked and she's a quick study. He kisses her deeply, cupping her face in his palms as she continues to stroke him and he moans his appreciation.

Melinda doesn't do blow-jobs, but she wants to now. She kisses Phil down his chest, across his belly and wonders if it's a bad idea. The last time she tried this out was at The Academy and she was repulsed by it. But she doesn't want to displease him, either by saying no or not really knowing what to do.

Phil reaches down, his hand guiding her head to his cock. Pushing her down, down, down. The last lover who tried that sprained his wrist.

"It will please me," he says. And that is all it takes for her to take him fully into her mouth.

And oh dear god, she wonders. She is enjoying having his cock in her mouth. Feeling it pulsing because of her and the taste of his pre-cum makes her even wetter. And somehow he knows this, because he reaches down and slips two fingers inside her, feeling how positively soaked she is.

"Deeper, Melinda," he says.

She has him at the back of her throat already, but she obeys and is rewarded with a deeper finger-fuck, as well as a groan of appreciation. He thrusts into her mouth and she takes it and realizes she's about to cum again when suddenly, he pulls out of her mouth and her pussy and flips her over so that she is pinned underneath him.

He exhales long and hard.

"You didn't like that?" she asks, genuinely worried.

Phil gives her a look. He knew she would ask that. The Melinda May under him is a Melinda May no one has ever seen. He rubs his cock over her belly. "Does that feel like I didn't like it?" he replies.

She smiles shyly and squirms to feel it again. "Was I any good?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches down and opens her legs wide and thrusts himself into her violently and begins to pump. Melinda cries out, not from any pain but the ultimate pleasure of it all and thrusts back. She cries out and orgasms almost immediately, clawing at his back, drawing blood. Their mouths slam against one another and Melinda feels like she's going to pass out. But before she does, she wants to feel him cum inside her.

_Inside me. It will please him._

What little strength she has left goes into squeezing his cock and thrusting against him. She looks into his eyes, and she's mesmerized by them. They are looking straight into her soul. And her soul is looking back.

"Phil," she pleads. "Cum inside me."

He slows his thrusting down, holding back. It's taking superhuman strength to hold back, and Melinda's pussy is.... Oh, fuck.... It's milking his cock and oh, god... He so badly wants to cum already, but it's bad enough they're fucking without any protection and now, she _wants_ him to cum inside her?

Tahiti must have really fucked with him. Because despite all the little Phil Coulson voices clamoring for him to pull out pull out pull out! He doesn't.

Instead, he gathers Melinda in his arms and brings her so close so they are chest to chest, and he makes her look into his eyes. He thrusts hard once and tells her, "You're mine," right before he spills his seed inside her.

She feels him pulsing inside, and it makes her cum again. It is nowhere near as hard or intense as the others, but it's a sweet and lulling ending.

She wonders if Phil hears her say yes, right before she lets herself pass out.

 


	4. Just Another Lazy Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's mostly smut. But in my defense, there's some ruminating too. :P

Sometime during the night, he dreams he's in Tahiti again.  It always starts out this way. Pleasant, relaxing and familiar.  But he's had way too many of these dreams to know what's coming next.  Soon, the sky will melt away to the walls in a lab, the sun will dissipate to a blinding spotlight, and the warm tropical weather on his skin becomes cold and clammy.  Phil braces himself for the impending doom to come, but curiously enough... it doesn't.  He gazes around him, waiting for the melting of the images to begin, but it doesn't.  And then, he realizes he's lying in the sand, and suddenly it's night time and someone is by his side, touching him.  It's a woman, based on the familiar smell of lavender and the soft skin and curves pressed against him.  He is immobilized, but not because he can't move - he doesn't want to.  The woman moves over him.  It's Melinda, and she is naked and smiling down at him and she asks him very nicely, "May I?" 

He nods, not really knowing what she's asking.  But it's Melinda May and when a naked Melinda May asks _May I?_ really, the only response in the universe is abso-fucking-lutely.  And well, that was the right response, because she's now giving him the blow-job of the century and Phil wakes up and it's actually happening. 

Melinda May has his cock in her mouth and she is blowing him so well that he very narrowly misses the little window of opportunity to pull her away before he knocks her off the bed with his orgasm.  She's already utilizing what little tutelage he gave her the first time, and he knows she is doing this for him, that she is giving it to him as an offering to show her subservience by forgoing her own pleasure, but Phil isn't all that much of a power-tripper.  He pulls her off and stretches her out  on top of him, and they fuck again in the middle of the night in the silence of the early morning.  No words are spoken, just little sighs and moans and grunts of pleasure.  

She buries her face in the crook of his neck as he thrusts into her.  Deeply, but oh-so-slowly.  He's driving her mad with the rhythm, but she goes over the edge as soon as he reaches down between them and rubs  her clit exactly the way she likes it.  

His distinct scent, she soon realizes, will be her undoing.  And the way he kisses, especially after they've climaxed.  Unique to just Phil Coulson.  She fears she will miss it, look for it, and want it even when it's out of the question.  No use worrying about it now, she thinks to herself.  She is too busy enjoying the feeling of Phil's cock pulsing inside her as he releases, and his mouth lazily sipping on her lips and tongue. 

 

 

 

Melinda May is waking up in a way she hasn't in years. Lazily, languidly and contentedly. Not the way she always wakes up, which is eyes snapping open, body tense, ready for an impending fight.  That is, assuming she gets to sleep at all.   

She is on her right side, her torso pressed against Coulson, their legs entwined.  Her left arm is over his stomach, palm lying on his navel. His breaths are deep and steady.  There is a wonderful sense of contentment that comes with knowing that with her in his arms, he has slept all through the night.  Too often she hears him in The Bus waking up from nightmares, or sees him in the pantry, or hears him in his office pacing; trying to shake away whatever demons are on his heels.   

How many times have they ended up running into each other because of their demons, and shared 2AM cups of tea?  And that is why there is also her own deep, deep slumber to consider.  After their marathon last night, she had passed out, but not before he had spooned her and simply said, "You're safe here," and Melinda had never heard that from any of her lovers, not that she would have believed them anyway.   She has always been anxious to get out as soon as possible and avoid the small talk, the lies, the begging and sometimes, the bragging.   

She's still perplexed over the last 14 hours.  Who was that? She barely recognizes herself.  She said things, did things, asked - no, begged - for things she couldn't believe came from her.  And goddamit but Phil Freaking Coulson delivered.  Big time.  It was unnerving how well he played her body and her mind.  Anticipating what she needed, and giving her things she didn't even know she wanted. She wonders if he's ruined her for future lovers. 

Last night, she wanted to fall asleep in Phil's bed.  

_There's a difference with what you want and what you need_ , he had said.   

_So this is what I need_ , she realizes. Her head perfectly fits in the crook of his shoulder and neck, and there it is again... That intoxicatingly wonderful Phil Coulson scent.  How can a man pushing 50 smell like a baby?   

Her gaze focuses on the long, jagged scar on his chest and her fingers gently caress it, tracing the lines and grooves.  He has chest hair, and May smiles because it's so very Phil.  So different from the muffins she's been sleeping with.  Hairless, buffed to a point where an argument for steroids can be made, so perfectly portioned that there is obviously a lot of vanity has gone into their physiques.  But Phil is Phil.  He isn't chiseled from marble, but he has what he needs. Firm pecs, just a hint of ab muscles... glorious arms though. A functional physique is more than enough when you know how to kill with a flick of your wrist, or paralyze if you know exactly where to hit.   

A dull, hollow ache forms inside her gut.  She wasn't on the carrier when Loki stabbed him, but she was supposed to be.  She was on the ground in New York and had to be assigned to combat when agents started falling.  When news came over the comm that Agent Phil Coulson was down, her heart lurched and broke a little bit and she cried for her fallen friend and confidant.   

She hates this scar, and it is the biggest one among many others.  But she had been a part of the others and the stories behind them.  Hell, had actually been there during their infliction.  The one under his right pectoral muscle was from Chechnya during an extraction they did together, the one right over his belly button was from a stab wound in Bosnia during an interrogation (Phil was receiving, not giving).  If she wasn't mistaken, there should be another one a few inches beneath his right armpit on his ribcage.  Her fingers glide over his chest, looking for it, hunting around for the bump she is sure is there. 

"What're you rubbing at over there?" asks a freshly woken Phil Coulson.  

May smiles. Her fingers have not stopped searching. "I'm looking for that scar.  The one from North Korea," she says. 

Phil places his hand over hers and guides it to the scar in question.  "That one?" he asks.   

She nods and caresses it gently.  She thinks of this as one of "theirs".  Because only she and Phil share its history, just like she too has scars only Phil is a part of.  It's a connection that only two people as damaged as they, who have worked with and known each other as long as they have can share and wear like trophies.   

"Show me another one," she says quietly.  

His hand, still holding hers, brings it to his lips for a kiss first before gliding it to his collar bone. Her thumb feels the uneven tissue, about four inches long. "Remember that one?" he asks.  He doesn't know where this is going, but having Melinda May's hand roaming all over him is a fine way to wake up in the morning, so he isn't going to complain.  

"Hong Kong triad," she says. There are at least a half dozen more that she knows of, and she would love to show-off how extensive her knowledge is of his anatomy, but Phil suddenly flips over and pins her beneath him.  She likes where this is going. 

He kisses her deeply, tongue dipping into her mouth and thrusting gently. His hands begin to roam over her. Her upper arms, her sides, her hips.  He cups a breast gently in his palm, licks at her nipple and suckles on it before moving to the other one.  He kisses the little valley between her breasts and says, "Los Angeles, 2003." 

"Huh?" she asks. Was that sexy talk? 

Coulson kisses the valley again.  There is a scar there that May has completely forgotten about, but he remembers. "Shrapnel. You didn't have a vest on and that car of Santiago Mortiz exploded. Shrapnel got you right here," he says. "You told medical to give you a band-aid." 

His hand skims to her left upper thigh, and his fingers caress another remembrance. "Mongolia, 2005." One last stop, over her left breast.  The newest one of the bunch.  "Italy, 2014." 

"You patched me up," she says, suddenly remembering that fateful day.  It was that day.  Coulson had given her medical treatment countless times before, but there was something different about that time.  He was gentler, more attentive.  His touch was... protective? Territorial?  When she replayed the scene again in her head days later, it had aroused her.  Coulson, standing between her legs, so close.  His fingers, so gentle on her skin, lingering just a split second longer than necessary, his voice low.  As though they were lovers sharing a secret.  And then Ward showed up and his sudden appearance had annoyed her.  It was a paradigm shift she didn't have time to mull over until much later. 

"You were going to stitch yourself up," he chuckles.  "Some of us would rather go with the hi-tech salve."  He slips her underneath him and his fingers skim her stomach, then slide down, down and inside her. She gasps and thrusts her hips upwards.  He begins to finger her, slowly but deeply, and his tongue begins the same rhythmic thrusting inside her mouth.  May stretches out and closes her eyes, fairly purring at all the wonderful sensations.  She loves Phil's tongue inside her mouth and she treats it with god-like respect, just as much as his cock and his hands - who have disciplined her into realizing how much pleasure her body is actually capable of achieving. 

She reaches down to reciprocate, but he stops her gently and smiles against her mouth.  "You've exhausted even the reserves, you minx."  

She pouts, a tad disappointed.  

But quickly enough it turns to pleasure.

 

 


	5. Payback Begins.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't fuck with a BAMF.

She's lying down on him with her right ear on his stomach. Phil absently plays with her hair while they watch reruns of The Walking Dead. He has slipped on a pair of boxers, and she has slipped on one of his undershirts.

Daryl is putting down zombie after zombie with his crossbow with unbridled violence.

"That's hot," Melinda says.

"Never knew you had a thing for zombies," Phil laughs.

She smacks his thigh over the sheets. "You know what I mean." She turns over to face him. "Zombie apocalypse. Who goes on your team?"

She hasn't even finished the last syllable when he replies, "You."

"You've actually thought about this?" she grins.

"Just now," he defends. "We've seen things. Who's to say a zombie apocalypse isn't as improbable as an alien invasion?"

"Who else?"

Phil saw the question coming, and is delighted to answer. "Everyone else on the team. But Ward. "

She has an idea why Ward has been excommunicated from Phil Coulson's zombie apocalypse scenario, but wants to hear it from him. "Ward is a combat and survival asset," she points out.

"You're a combat and survival asset. Ward thinks with too many other body parts before his brain. He sleeps with you, falls in love with Skye and what... next week he'll have 'pheels' for Simmons?" He makes no attempt to hide the derision in his voice. His cellphone beeps and he reaches for it on the nightstand.

"Furlough's been approved," he says. He tosses the phone back down and resumes caressing her hair. Melinda senses she better let the topic of Ward drop.

"How long did you put in for?" she asks, hoping the distraction is enough.

"Three. They gave us five."

That makes May smile. Besides dying, being Director Fury's right-hand man has it's perks. She wonders if Phil is going to engage in more shop talk, but she doubts it. She knows it will sour his mood as well as hers.

His stomach growls. She really isn't much of a cook, but damn it, they need nourishment, and if that means having to open up a can of beans and nuking it, then that is what she will do. She turns her head to glare at him.

He grins at her sheepishly. "I'm going, I'm going," he says.

She's about to volunteer to do it despite her misgivings about her cooking skills, but he stands up and extends his hand out to her. "Come with me?" he asks. She is taken aback at how he poses the question. Like a little boy asking, _Can you come out to play?_ She smiles back at him and takes his hand, and off to the kitchen they go. He holds her hand the way he first did at the bar; a firm grip with fingers interlaced. He kisses her sweetly on the bridge of her nose and gives her a hug when they get to the kitchen. Then, he settles her on a stool beside the granite island.

"What's in the pantry, Adelaide?" he asks.

There is a soft beep first. "Good afternoon, Agent Coulson. _Madame_." Again, the snarky tone on "madame".

Phil hangs his head in consignment. He's going to ask Skye to give the AI a personality make-over very soon. "Good afternoon. Pantry contents, please?"

"Pasta is a good option, agent. Sundried tomatoes, porcini mushrooms, feta cheese, Parmesan, pancetta, chicken breast... "

She continues to enumerate everything available. Meanwhile, Phil is only half listening because he is once again showering much attention on Melinda's mouth with his own. When Adelaide finishes speaking, she waits a few beats before interrupting the two agents.

"Agent Coulson," she queries.

Phil is busy giving Melinda long, slow, deep, wet kisses. And her legs have involuntarily wrapped themselves around his waist, pulling him in, and her hands have reached behind him to enjoy his pert butt.

"Agent Coulson!!"

This time they break apart. May grins. "I don't think she likes being ignored," she points out. "And I do hope you were paying attention, Phil. It's been what...eighteen hours since we had anything to eat?"

"Oh ye of little faith," Phil replies. He gives her a peck on the nose. "Adelaide, I'm going to rustle up some pasta. Porcini, truffle oil and pancetta."

"Jeez, Phil. You cook too?" asks Melinda incredulously. The surprises keep on coming. How has she not known this after all this time?

Phil shrugs. "My cooking prowess is limited to pasta and sandwiches. Maybe a couple of soups. As long as the most crucial step is throwing ingredients together, I can make something pretty decent." He pulls out ingredients from the cabinets, shelves and refrigerator under Adelaide's guidance and begins to prep. A pot of water is boiled, the porcini mushrooms get soaked in warm water, the pancetta is sliced lengthwise and some Parmesan cheese is shaved.

Melinda is happy to watch him cook. It's an oddly comforting and casual setting that she would normally steer clear from like the plague, but it's Phil. She cannot and will not allow herself this level of familiarity with her flings or one-night stands. She realizes that out of the 8 billion people populating the world, Phil Coulson is solitarily the one and only person she can do this with. Not a stranger from a bar, not a colleague like Ward.

Ward. _What the fuck was I thinking?_

She shakes away the stab of regret. "So this is how you get welcomed back into the land of the living, huh?" she asks. "I think I got a fruit basket and a few flowers."

Phil pulls out a pack of strawberries from the fridge and rinses them. Melinda may think he hasn't seen the fleeting look of dismay come and go, but he has. He tosses the fruit into a bowl and hands it to her. "Munch on these in the meantime," he says.

Melinda picks one and bites into it. It's extra sweet and tasty because she is starving by now.

Phil looks around the apartment. "This is how I get welcomed back by Tony Stark and Pepper Potts.  My welcome back from SHIELD involved an alien probe literally fucking around in my brain."

Melinda pauses. "At least they care."

Phil stops and grins, then shakes his head and laughs. "I guess they do," he says. He leans forward and gives Melinda a kiss. He lingers just a little bit because he can, and he knows she will not protest. He places a strawberry over her bottom lip and she bites into it, vaguely wondering how often he's done this with other women.

She opens her legs and tugs on his boxers, subtly enough so she doesn't come off as pushy or demanding. He steps into her space and places his warm palms on her thighs, caressing the smooth skin as he looks her over, gaze wandering over every inch. Again, Melinda feels conscious, and wonders what her lover is thinking; if he wishes she had bigger breasts, less scars, longer hair. She is self conscious, and it's off-putting and yet...arousing. To be in a position of such vulnerability and scrutiny and yearn to be perfect for just one man's eyes.

Perfect just for him.

She places her fingers on his belly, and presses her forehead to his chest. She kisses the valley between his pecs, right over his scar, and her hands move up his sides. She nuzzles his chest and happily welcomes him when he steps even closer so that she feels his growing arousal against her mound.

"I thought even the reserves had been depleted?" she teases.

He rubs against her and kisses her deeply, tongue probing her mouth, thrusting gently and enjoying the lingering taste of strawberries. A hand slips under her shirt and cups her breast, squeezing tightly. "I'd shoot bullets out of my dick if it meant getting to fuck you again," he murmurs.

A bolt of arousal zings through her. It isn't so much the coarse language that excites her, but who it's coming from. Phil Coulson, SHIELD agent extraordinaire. Her by-the-book boss, Mr Protocol, soft-spoken certified BAMF.

Mr. Unattainable.

She's known him for most of her life, fought alongside of him, seen more sides of him than anyone else. Except this side. This side has evaded her for years.

"Phil," she whispers, grinding her pussy against him. "Please."

"Tell me something, Melinda." It's a whisper against her mouth. His hands slow their exploration of her.

"Anything," she replies, a little too quickly.

"That's what I wanted to hear." He slips her out of his shirt and tosses it to the floor, then pushes her to lie down on the counter, his hands immobilizing her movement as he lathes her with his tongue.

She writhes underneath his touch and mouth, and begins to whimper.

"Do you want me to make you cum again?" he asks, his mouth suckling at her stiff nipples.

"Yes. Please."

His hands glide over her skin, palms enjoying the smoothness and response to his touch. "Then you're going to do everything I ask, won't you." It's a statement, not a request. He kisses her flat, sinewy belly and gently bites the flesh right over her mound.

She nods, biting her lip, legs moving helplessly out of their own accord.

"I can't hear you," he says, biting again.

"Yes, anything. Anything."

He hands move down, parting her legs. His thumb presses against her clit and massages it softly, sending a gush of wetness out of her. "Open your eyes, Melinda."

She struggles with the soft command from her dominant. She is not in control of much of her body; it feels as though only one part of her exists, and it's being completely controlled by Phil Coulson. She struggles to obey and her eyes flutter open, focusing on him. She is ecstatic when she sees his approving smile.

He slows his manipulation of her clit, but slides his middle finger into her, and deeply and slowly begins to finger-fuck her. Deliberately, he grazes the little spot inside only he is familiar with, and Melinda screams out in pleasure. She tries to sit up, but she's gently pushed back down again. And like a good little submissive, she stays down and relinquishes control before she even has any. She locks her gaze on his and asks him as dutifully as she can. "What do you want me to do?"

He smiles and rewards her with another finger graze to the special spot. "You're staying with me during the entire furlough," he says. "I'm going to fuck you when I want to and make you scream over and over again. Would you like that?"

She nods in acquiescence immediately.

Another graze.

"We'll go back to The Bus later so you can get a few clothes. And if you bump into Ward, I want you to tell him it's all over between the two of you."

She nods again, biting her lip, trying to hunch against his fingers.

Another graze. She whimpers appreciatively.

"I want you to tell him the truth. But you know which details to leave out, don't you?" He coaxes the little spot, courting it, bringing it to full attention. Just as it's about to burst with pleasure, he stops and holds off.

Melinda gasps, fighting the urge to claw at her lover to bring her over the edge. "Yes, yes," she says, and she squeezes her eyes tight, hoping for the fix that will release her. He pulls his finger out and slips his cock in and begins to fuck her deeply, hitting the secret spot with his first thrust.

"Yes, what, Melinda?" he asks, pumping in and out, hands on her hips to guide her thrusts against him.

"I'll tell Ward it's over. "

"And when he asks why?"

"Because I don't fuck boys."


	6. The Game is Afoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You may think you're a BAMF till you mess with a real one. And then you do something REALLY stupid... like mess with two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter than usual because in my head, the tone of this fic is going to change drastically from the end of this chapter to the succeeding ones. 
> 
> Ward lovers, better turn away from here on in. :P

She screams and locks her ankles at his lower back, chest slamming against his. Coulson releases his seed into her, completely unmindful of any consequences at this point. He's come inside her 6 or 7 times now, and she intensely enjoys each and every one; her orgasms reaching new heights when she feels him swell inside her. She has fiercely begged him not to pull out, and he is only too happy to accommodate her (even if it means having to face up to consequences later on).

He doesn't know if his ability to satisfy her is post-TAHITI related, or because his body knows it must perform because _fuck, this is Melinda May goddamit._ It could very well be a little or a lot of both.

All Phil knows for certain is that he is abso-fucking-lutely grateful that he can. He doesn't remember ever having to keep up with a sex marathon such as this with such ease, even during his wilder and younger days when SHIELD was much less regulated and had agents that were so much less psychologically stable.

He pulls out of her and she makes a small sound of protest, but she kisses him gratefully anyway, and he reciprocates. Soft, sweet kisses that nuzzle, and deep breaths for a pheromone fix. Her hands run over his sweaty flesh, squeezing his muscles appreciatively as she virtually purrs. Their breathing returns to normal. He squeezes her breast, thumb fanning the still-erect nipple and gives it a quick lick before sending her back to the bedroom.

"We are never going to eat if you keep distracting me," he growls. "Lunch. Go. Give me 15 minutes." He kisses her hard before smacking her butt as she traipses back to the room. She of course leans down very slowly to retrieve her shirt from the floor, offering Phil a view of her naked rump followed by a coy smile.

She winks. "I'll be waiting."

 

15 minutes later, Phil walks into the room with a tray. It's got a huge bowl of pasta on it, two glasses of iced tea and two forks. May is taking a shower. He sets the tray on a nearby table and tidies up the bed; straightening the sheets, smoothening and re-tucking the duvet, and fluffs up the pillows. The metrosexual in him refuses to live in a pig sty, especially when he's got company. Strewn clothes are picked up off the floor, a table lamp that had gotten knocked over repositioned, and the rug at the foot of the bed is lined up symmetrically.

That done, he goes into the bathroom to treat himself and enjoy the view. He leans against a wall, crossing his arms over his chest and drinks in the sight of Melinda May lathering herself under a rainforest shower head, steam billowing around her.

 _New item on the agenda,_ he thinks. _Fuck Melinda May in the shower._

She knew he was there a second before he walked in. Honestly, did anyone really soap themselves in slow motion? But the look on his face is gratifying enough, and when she raises her eyes to his and soaps her breasts, the added bonus is when he slides open the shower door and leans far in for a kiss under the rain.

Under the torrent of water he kisses her deeply; tongue probing the cavern of her mouth, as his hands are braced against the steel frame and he gets drenched. She kisses back, loving how generous he is even with non-verbal praise. Though her past lovers exalted her frequently about her body, it just seems to have more of an impact on her psyche when it's from him.

He pulls back, upper torso soaked and grins at her. "Lunch," he simply says. He reaches behind him and gets a towel, then helps her out of the shower. He wraps the towel around her shoulders, bundling her up.

"Guess what made it to my list during our break," he asks.

"I don't have to take a guess. I already know."

He grabs a towel for himself, smiles mischievously and steps out of the bathroom.

 

A few minutes later, they are in bed making a mess. Phil sits with his back against the massive headboard while Melinda sits between his legs. She's holding the giant bowl of pasta for both of them between her knees, Phil reaching in front of her to spear noodles onto his fork, unsuccessfully keeping all of them on it before they reach his mouth. They're giggling incessantly at the mess, each of them immensely enjoying the other's laughter. Upon Phil's insistence, May is wearing his sweats and a T-shirt, to give getting through lunch without taking her again a fighting chance.

Phil can't think of anything more adorable.

"This really is insanely delicious, Phil." Her proximity to the bowl means every forkful makes it to her mouth. "What's in it?"

A noodle drops onto Melinda's shoulder before the rest make it to Phil's mouth. He swoops down on it before he answers, evading her raised eyebrow and sheepishly cleans up the little spot. "Porcini mushrooms, cream, beef stock, Parmesan, garlic and prosciutto," he says. "But what gives it the real kick is the truffle oil."

"It's wonderful," she praises.

"Glad you like it."

"Tell me something else I didn't know about you." Melinda says.  She leans against back, pressing against his chest.  He nuzzles the side of her face.

"Well... I play the piano."

She turns and stares at him open-mouthed. "No, you don't."

"Play your cards right and I will show you."

 

Only a few smears of cream remain in the bowl when they wrap up lunch at 3:30PM. May slips on her pants from last night, and borrows a shirt from Coulson, who opts for a dressed down version of his usual attire; that is to 86 the tie. May's gaze follows him around the bedroom, because a freshly showered Phil Coulson with an unbuttoned and untucked white shirt, black trousers, and shiny shoes walking around is very, very enjoyable.

He walks up behind her and nuzzles her nape. Again, a simple touch ends up being a torrid kiss with a lot of feeling-up in some very inappropriate places. When he pulls back, he keeps his face centimeters from hers and murmurs, "Break him."

She smiles at him. A coy, knowing smile. "I will."

 

On their way back to The Bus, he keeps one hand on her thigh. She places her hand over his, interlacing their fingers together.

"We're really going to show up at the same time after we've both been ignoring their messages?" she asks.

"We could walk in holding hands with our tongues down each other's throat and they'd still be in denial anything was going on."

May scoffs. "Especially for you-know-who."

He chuckles. "You aren't wrong."

They come to a stop at a red light. He looks at her, not saying a word. And Melinda knows instantly what he's thinking. She looks back at him, a small and barely discernible smile on her lips.

_You will be pleased._

He smiles back and guns the engine.

It's going to be an interesting afternoon.


	7. More Playmates Come to Play.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note the addition of characters. No smut this chapter, but me likes it because it's fun.
> 
> I do love Hawkeye too. And though I love seeing Coulson as a raging hetero, there is something DAMN sexy about two VERY sexy men with drippings of unresolved sexual tension.

 

 

The most predictable characteristic of predictable people is that they fancy themselves quite unpredictable.  When Coulson drives his car up the docking ramp aboard The Bus with May beside him, he has a feeling no one took the short furlough all that seriously.

While older agents would have jumped at the chance to get away from anything remotely SHIELD-related, the younger ones prefer the comfort of free food and accommodations over anything else.  And then of course there is the Level 7 agent who has his rat holes all over the world, who would normally disappear off the face of the earth for the entire furlough for some R&R, but chooses to stay on The Bus for not one but _two_ decidedly female reasons.  The allure of the booty call and the need to do some courting. 

It's the arrogance and sexist logic of the buck that Coulson won't stand for and what annoys him the most. As though the women on his team were put there for Ward's amusement.  And though everyone is old enough to think and fend for themselves, Phil tends to be overprotective of the women for personal reasons. 

Skye's sheer determination, tenacity and resilience has endeared her to the older agent, and he feels a tenderness for her he's never felt anyone before. 

With so many years of being a SHIELD agent under his belt, Coulson has seen the worst of humanity, and what the rest of the universe has to offer.  Honestly, in general... it sucked, and the years have left him jaded and scarred both physically and mentally.  But Skye offered a new way to look at the world and taught him how to turn it and make it livable for now.  And for that alone, she has earned a place in his life that may have been occupied by a daughter or son; and like any good (and somewhat rabid) father, he will protect his young at all cost. 

Something inside him had shifted the day he told her what little they dug up about where she had come from.  When her tears started falling, his heart somehow felt as though it were being hollowed out, and he felt a sudden responsibility to her. His palm had involuntarily cupped her cheek, and she had burrowed into it like an injured animal seeking protection. 

Years of distancing himself from emotional attachment came crumbling down when she stepped into his embrace and buried herself in his chest.  That was Phil's defining moment when it came to her.  There was a moment of clarity that came crashing down on him as he held her close, tucked her under his chin and comforted her.

The day that she almost died in his arms almost killed him too.  His heart felt as though it were being ripped to shreds, and he had never felt that kind of panic drowning him and overwhelming him so completely.

Damn anyone who hurt her.

_If Ward thinks he has feelings for her, he better fucking prove it. Or die trying._

Ward would learn quickly enough one's last choice for a girlfriend is an 084 who's found a place in the heart of a Level 8 SHIELD agent resurrected from the dead.  To say Coulson had high standards was an understatement. As it was, the only suitor welcome at this point would be Steve Rogers. 

With Melinda, 20 or so years in the battlefield through thick and thin, and surviving against the odds has bonded her to him for life and beyond.  And that wasn't even counting the last two days, though if he and/or May knew what was good for them, they, unlike Ward, would be able to keep the sex completely away from their work. 

It really wasn't unheard of in the world of SHIELD.   When faced with mortality too often, the moral compass of the majority tends to veer off-course, and be viewed by polite society as morally corrupt.  He and May knew _plenty_ of agents who were fuck buddies and nothing more. May certainly had a few on standby.  But even if they've been fucking like bunnies for just a couple of days, Phil knows May isn't in love with him.  She may love him and care for him, yes, but he's certain that deeper than that, he is a supplier.  A drug addict won't say they're in love with their dealer, but they will say they that they can't live without what their dealer gives them.  

Phil gives Melinda the drugs she needs in the quantities and quality she needs them in.  Sex with mental control rooted in a friendship filled with trust.  He gets the same thing from her, except he gets to be the dominant and she the submissive.  It's a fucked up relationship to be sure, but for now, exploiting it gives them a high on an other-worldly level.  Fuck Ward if he thinks he can give May what she needs.

They part ways at the docking bay, May making a beeline for Ward's quarters and Coulson heading for his office.  He's about to pass the dining area when two very familiar figures see him first. 

Clint Barton and Natasha Romanov, call signs Hawkeye and Black Widow respectively, stand up; their mouths agape before stretching into wide smiles the moment they see him.  Coulson smiles back, his stride slowing a little as the two younger Avengers approach him.  Natasha is the first to hug him, head shaking and studying him at arm's length.  "For a dead guy, you look awesome." 

Phil smiles.  "No one can do dead like me, am I right?" 

Before Natasha can answer, he's engulfed in a suffocatingly strong bear hug by Clint, and for a brief moment, Phil wonders if he's going to pick him up off the floor and shake him like a little boy who's found a long-lost beloved toy.  The lingering few seconds Clint keeps him in his arms doesn't go unnoticed by Coulson or Romanov.  

"Good to see you walking and breathing, sir."  Clint finally says, releasing Phil. He looks into Coulson's eyes, as though still processing the sight before him.  It takes a little effort, but he does manage to hold back the tear that was threatening to fall.  He feels Natasha's hand on his shoulder give him a gentle squeeze and he steps back, controlling the urge to give his former boss another hug. 

"What're you two doing here?" Coulson asks, though he's glad to see them.  He motions for both of them to sit back down and heads to the bar.  "Scotch on the rocks, Natasha?" 

Natasha grins. "Awww.... You remember." 

Phil grins and pulls a couple of bottles out. "Whiskey for the Hawk." 

"If you don't mind, we're off-duty. Right, Nat?" Silently, he wants to add he's celebrating the validation of seeing, hearing, and touching Phil Coulson's resurrection. 

Phil nods, making the younger agent's drink a double, and pours himself the same.  He hands them over and sits beside Barton on the long leather seat.  "What're you two doing in London?" 

Natasha answers.  "They asked us to come in to evaluate the new weapons out of Sci-Tech.  Your Fitz-Simmons did a helluva job with those Night-Night guns." 

"I believe Fitz said they're called ICERS now," Clint interjects.  "He was pretty adamant about that." 

"So you've met them?" Phil asks, silently proud that the two most weapons-proficient SHIELD agents are impressed with a product his team R&D'd to field use. He also notices that the tip of Clint's knee is touching his, but he makes no move to break contact.  

Nat laughs.  "We have. Clint, tell Phil what you call them." 

Clint grins. "The puppies," he says. "Do you give them nap time in the afternoon?" 

Phil smirks.  "You're one to talk.  You were younger than either of them when I brought you in." 

"So how come you never gave _me_ Oreos and milk?" 

Phil is about to say something _very_ inappropriate that would make Clint blush, but he remembers Natasha is there.  And although she's got a better grasp of their very bizarre dynamic than anyone, they are still SHIELD agents on The Bus and need to exhibit proper decorum.  So Phil stands up instead, heads over to the pantry and pulls out a pack of Oreos, a glass, opens the fridge and grabs a carton of milk.  

Clint only too happily makes a grab for everything, and pours a glass of milk.  So of course Coulson confiscates Clint's whiskey and Natasha's scotch, lest the two end up with tummy aches. 

"Hey! I didn't want cookies and milk!" protests Natasha. 

His mouth stuffed with two already-dipped Oreos, Barton shoves two pieces 3 inches away from Romanov's face, wiggles them, and says, "So I can eat these too?" 

She snatches them away, of course.  "No!" and dunks her cookies before bully Barton can stuff them into his mouth too. 

Phil smiles.  These two were part of the elite Avengers Initiative?  _Hell, yes._   He's known both of them for years, trained both, and wears that badge proudly.  Part of his BAMF reputation is that both assassins still call him 'boss', purely from force of habit and affection. 

"Kids, no fighting," Phil says. 

"He started it!" Natasha defends, then realizes she's been manipulated and glares at them both. 

Clint laughs. 

Phil grins at him.  "See what I did there?" 

"I did, I did," says Barton.  He turns serious quite suddenly and says, "It's really great seeing you again." 

Before Phil can respond, a loud gasp interrupts them. It's Skye, and she has her best fan-girl pose on.  Hands clamped over her mouth, on tip-toe, eyes as wide as saucers and shaking like a leaf. 

"Oh my god oh my god oh my god!!!!" she squeals. 

Phil throws his hands up in the air.  "Did _no one_ go on their furlough!?" 

"Pff!  Have you seen how much a room in London costs?" says Skye, sliding in beside Coulson, virtually shoving him to the side to get a better look at Hawkeye. "Boss, introductions!  Pleeeeaaaaaaase!" 

Phil is now smooshed up to Barton.  He doesn't mind, really.  They are now thigh to thigh, and Clint has had to put his arm on the armrest behind Coulson's shoulders.  "She's been asking for this for months," Phil says.  

Natasha and Clint smile at her. 

"Skye, right?" Natasha asks. 

Skye squeals again and resists the urge to grab her boss and shake him.  "The Black Widow knows my name!  Can you.  Freaking.  Believe that!?" 

Phil nods. Slowly but emphatically, hoping it will calm the excessively excited Skye.  It does not. 

"I knew it too," Clint offers. 

"Holy crap!" says Skye.  Phil thinks she's going to have a stroke soon.  "Are you serious!?" she asks in disbelief. 

"No, not at all," Clint deadpans.  "I was just messing with you."  He grins at Coulson (and Coulson only) because everyone else's laughter is inconsequential, and gets a thrill when his mentor smiles back approvingly. 

Even if she knows he's teasing, it makes the fan-girl pink with glee to be teased by no less than _Hawkeye_.  The news footage on the two Avengers during The Battled of New York was epic.  No super powers, no ridiculously hi-tech armor, no otherworldly and god-like power but they held their own.  She's about to ask them to wait so she can ask for autographs, but her boss gives her _a look_.  It's a look she knows all too well because dammit, Coulson can somehow read her mind.  So the look says _Go to your room_ , and her mood deflates, her shoulders drop and she pouts. One last valiant attempt, and she slaps on a puppy-dog look at AC and hopes for the best.  

He puts a hand on her knee and gives her a reassuring squeeze, leans towards her and says, "You'll get a chance later, okay?"

Skye grins.  A promise from her boss is a guarantee.  She stands up, slides out from behind the table and practically skips off.  "See ya!" she says. 

Barton shakes his head as she exits.  "Puppy." 

_ONE HOUR LATER_  

 

When May walks out of Ward's quarters, the first thing she notices is the quiet.  It's 6 in the evening and they are docked, which means there should be chatter from ground crew, maintenance, personnel and agents.  But it's quiet.  She makes her way through debriefing, the mess hall and medical before she finally hears voices.  It sounds like cheering coming from the training room, but before she gets there, 2 ground crew still wearing safety helmets and reflective vests almost crash into her. 

"Sorry, Agent May!" they say in unison, heading for where the cheering is coming from. 

"What the hell is going on?" May asks.  

One of the crew begins to run backwards before answering her, just that much in a hurry to go where he wants to be. "Agent Coulson and Agent Barton are duking it out in training!!" he calls excitedly before facing forward again and sprinting away. 

 _Clint Barton is on The Bus?_  

If there is one thing that will make Melinda May run really fast, it turns out it is hearing that Agent Coulson and Barton are duking it out in training.  She even gets there ahead of the ground crew who ran into her.  There is a bit of panic in the back of her mind - are the two men _fighting-fighting_ or _pretend-fighting,_ for one thing.  And for another, she is very much hoping no one has broken  anything yet.  

When May opens the sound proof doors of the training room, deafening cheers assault her ears.  Every single man and woman SHIELD-affiliated within a two-mile radius is crammed inside.  

In the middle of it all is a jean-clad and shirtless Clint Barton, and a more conservatively dressed Phil Coulson (white wife-beater undershirt and black trousers). Both have fight gloves on, and they are circling the mats, sweating heavily and bloodied; in fighting stance, expressions fierce, muscles tense.  

It's the sexiest fucking thing Melinda May has seen in her whole life. 

And apparently, others share the sentiment. Every cellphone camera is out and there are loud Ooohs and Aaahs from the very appreciative females in the audience, and quite a few males.  And of course, Skye, Fitz, Simmons and Natasha Romanov have the best seats in the house.  

 _Natasha Romanov?_

Melinda wonders when and why the two agents arrived.  She's known Natasha for a few years thanks to an introduction from Coulson, and gone on three missions with her.  Barton on the other hand, prefers flying solo and does not play well with others.  But the SHIELD rumor mill has been a-twitter for years about Barton's attachment and loyalty to Coulson, his former SO and recruiter.   

Simmons spots her and gleefully waves her over to take the seat on the bench between her and Skye she has reserved.  Natasha stands and gives May a warm hug.  "Been ages, hasn't it?" she asks. 

Melinda nods and smiles, hugging her back.  "Haven't seen you since you got back from Budapest.    What brings you and Agent Barton over?" 

Fitz interrupts, craning his neck to see past the two women blocking his view.  "We all want to hear this, ladies. But right now there's a _fight_ going on, and blood is flying about!" 

Simmons beams up at May.  "Saved you a seat!" she declares. "They've been at it about 4 minutes!  Never thought I'd appreciate this kind of thing, but oh my!" she declares breathlessly.  

May can certainly relate.  "How did... What the...? Where did...?!" She trails off, no thought reaching completion, thanks to the distraction before her. 

Romanov sighs, a bit exasperated. "Agent Coulson was giving us a tour," she shrugs. "We ended up here, words were said. Challenges uttered.  Then testosterone pretty much took over," she shakes her head, as though saying _Boys will be boys._ "Before any one knew what was going on, those two were slipping the gloves on and taking shirts off." 

"I just wanna say," says Skye.  "Thank you, Baby Jesus."  Her jaw still hanging, she can't get over the fact that her boss has a body even a 30 year old would envy.  Flat stomach with traces of a six-pack, pretty decently-sized pecs and hoo-ha... Those were some nice arms on AC.  Muscular, sinewy, veins spread out just right.  "Who knew under the suit, our boss was built like _that_?" she asks incredulously. 

Simmons waves her hand in excitement. "I did!" she exclaims happily. "I do his physicals!" 

Skye reaches over and glares her.  "Why didn't you tell me?!" 

Before Simmons can reply, Barton does a double back-fist that  Coulson blocks with his forearm, retaliating with an uppercut to the solar plexus.  Barton goes down, but only long enough to fake injury so that when Coulson goes in for a kill-shot, he gets him in the shin with a sweep.  Both men end up on the mat and lock into a grapple. 

Fitz cannot understand how riveted he is by all this violence.  He has a permanent wince affixed to his face, and the front row seats have lost their advantage.  Someone's blood has ended up on his jeans and he is repulsed and yet fascinated at the same time. 

"So how do we know who wins?  It's not one of those to-the-death things, is it?" he asks. 

Romanov answers him.  "It usually ends in a tap-out, knock-out, or when the referee calls for stoppage due to medical reasons." 

"But there isn't a referee," Fitz points out. 

She shrugs.  "That leaves two ways, then." 

Skye and Simmons are clutching each other's hands, squeezing the circulation away with every punch or kick that makes contact.  Whatever advantage Barton has in terms of strength and youth, Coulson more than compensates for in technique and experience.  There's also that Phil had actually _trained_ Clint some years ago and still remembers his weaknesses.  Clint never did listen to Phil and remember to step back after executing a jab and forward kick. 

 _Smack!_  

Many times over, the older agent manages to anticipate Barton's next move, thereby trapping him into several holds.  Barton narrowly avoids tapping out each time with sheer tenacity.  Both men are sweaty and bloody, breathing heavily and obviously in pain but the fight looks far from over.  Barton manages to escape and gets back on his feet, which allows Coulson to do the same.  

"Director Fury's got two grand on Coulson!" yells Agent Sitwell, on his mobile phone.  Apparently, someone (Skye) had managed to use all the cellphone cameras to patch in a live video feed to The Hub. 

This elicits a laugh from everyone, including the two fighters. 

"Hear that, Barton?" asks Coulson.  "If I lose, it means I get my ass kicked by you _and_ Fury." 

Barton chuckles.  "That's okay, sir.  Dinner's on me." 

"On guard," says Coulson.  Their hands come up again, each man determining when to strike.  Coulson kicks a 45 to Barton's ribcage, but Barton steps to the side at the last possible second, so the impact is considerably lessened.  He makes a lunge for Coulson's legs, intending to take the fight to the ground, but a well-timed knee check makes impact with Barton's temple and he goes crashing to the floor instead. 

Phil pounces on him, flattening Barton to the mat, right arm twisted behind him, chest to the ground, with Coulson on top of him. He winces in pain but doesn't tap out, gritting his teeth. 

He assesses his situation.  Both of them have a film of sweat and blood all over them.  Perhaps Coulson's grip isn't as solid as it feels?  He tests his theory by pulling on his arm and stops immediately. The grip was solid. He also considers the rhythm of Coulson's chest heaving against his back - his mentor is exhausted, based on the rapid rises and falls, but the ray of hope quickly evaporates when Barton realizes that he is being leaned on, and his recovery will be rapid.  

He curses himself for not being more careful; this would have made Coulson proud, if only he had won.  The roar of the crowd and their approval mean nothing - and losing to his former SO is nothing to be ashamed of, but still... he feels about 10 years old again, seeking the approval or attention of an idol.  

As though reading his mind, Phil leans in, so that only Clint can hear him, his warm breath against his ear.  "I'm proud of you," he simply says, before twisting Clint's arm again till Clint finally taps out. 

The roar of the crowd is deafening. 

Coulson stands up, and Barton collapses to the ground, but both men are grinning from ear to ear.  Phil offers a hand, which Barton takes, and stands up.  On shaky feet, the men hug it out and the medics rush them, along with Skye, Fitz and Simmons.

"So," says Coulson, wrapping his arm around Barton's shoulder.  "Does this mean dinner's on me?"

Barton smiles cheekily.  "Yeah.   Pizza's good by me.  But it better be worth 2 grand." 

Simmons begins barking orders as to what needs to be treated, how, and in what order.  Skye hands each man a towel and Fitz gives each man a blow-by-blow assessment of their performance.  May and Romanov, not fan-girling types, watch on as the two men are escorted to medical by their entourage. 

They exit the training dojo, just as Fitz wonders out loud, "Anyone seen Ward?"

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone up for some Hawkeye/Coulson smut??


	8. The Barton Postulate.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson and Barton, post alpha-male fight. One shirtless, one semi-shirtless. Alone in medical. 
> 
> 'Nuff said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Coulson/Barton smut here, lots of angst though. I've taken loads of liberties in terms of Hawkeye's background and how Coulson is in relation to it. So I guess I should say this is an AU in that sense.
> 
> It's my first time writing M/M in any sense, so one may notice an awkwardness in the writing.
> 
> Please be gentle with the comments, I'm still playing catch-up. ;)

CHAPTER 8  
The Barton Postulate

 

 

In medical, two med techs and Simmons tend to the injuries of Coulson and Barton. Both men require a few stitches, and Simmons personally tends to her boss' lacerations. She's still a bit breathless from the testosterone-fueled match she's seen - and although she's seen Phil Coulson in action before, seeing him like that was quite... _revealing_. She is having a bit of a difficult time maneuvering however; Skye and Fitz are getting underfoot and being absolute groupies to the two battered men who are ribbing each other like a couple of drunken frat boys.

All this while Jemma is trying to keep a steady hand as she stitches up Agent Coulson's brow while he is sitting and not lying down, because he is enjoying his banter far too much with Agent Barton to be a proper patient (and knows Jemma will do an excellent job either way).

So she shoos away both Skye and Fitz, because Skye is saying "ouchie!" every time she punctures Agent Coulson's skin with the needle, and Fitz because he's asking Agent Barton all kinds of questions about mixed martial arts and making it very difficult for the med techs to do their job. She checks the stitching on Agent Barton's chin and is satisfied, then sends them off as well.

How could something so vicious and bloody be so... _ttittilating_? And now both men are sitting side by side on the examination table, laughing and joking as though they hadn't been trying to knock each other into oblivion not 10 minutes ago.

"You got me good in the liver with that one," recalls Coulson, laughing. "I gotta say...I saw stars."

And then Agent Barton retorts, "You liked that, huh? You almost broke my shin when you checked my kick. It's gonna smart tomorrow."

"Sir," she politely interrupts as she wipes away a splotch of blood on his temple. "Weren't you just trying to rip out Agent Barton's arm out of its socket awhile ago?"

Coulson grins. "Only because Agent Barton was going easy on me."

Barton scoffs. "I wish."

Coulson suddenly turns serious. "Agent Simmons, would you give us a few minutes, please?" he politely requests.

Simmons exits medical hastily, leaving the two men alone.

The automatic doors hiss shut, and it's very quiet. Barton pushes off the table and looks around for his shirt, suddenly conscious of his nakedness.

"I know you could've beat me," says Coulson. It's not an accusation.

Clint laughs uncomfortably. "Give yourself some credit. That's you blaming yourself for my failures. Again."

Phil shakes his head. "You don't even realize it, do you?"

"Realize what?" asks Clint. He can't find his shirt because it's still in the training dojo, and the quiet in the room is amplifying Coulson voice. He is suddenly very much aware they are alone and both in various states of undress.

He goes to the far side of the room and starts fiddling with office supplies, his back to his former boss, trying not to see the sweat glistening off his arms, the muscles that have defined themselves since last he saw him, or the pectoral muscles beneath the undershirt. For a man about to hit 50, he looked damn good.

Phil sighs. His relationship with Clint Barton has always been complicated and rife with psychoses. But now was not the time to bring any of that up. Rather, he wanted to begin to repair whatever damage was made before and after his death. He could reflect on the how and why later on.

"Your one-inch punch to the solar plexus is your most effective attack," Phil tells him. "Always has been. Even in training I could only block it 20% of the time, and you know that."

Barton freezes, silent, his back still to Coulson.

"You were going to use it on me." Phil gets off the table and steps towards Clint. "I saw you hesitate. You remembered."

Lying is every SHIELD agent's forte. And Hawkeye is no exception. But it's useless lying to the man who taught him how to lie, and the man who can see right through him. He turns, slowly, staring at the ground, still unable to look Phil in the eye. He feels about 10 years old again, wonders vaguely if he's going to get punished in a twisted flashback to his so-called childhood.

His head snaps up. "How the fuck am I supposed to forget?!" he says, almost yelling. He still refuses to meet Phil's gaze. "It _killed_ you. Mother fucking killed you! " _And I wanted to die along with you._ He swivels around again, hands gripping the edge of the supply desk, so tight his knuckles turn white.

"Clint," Coulson says. "Look at me." J _esus, does this really have to happen with one of us half naked?_ he wonders. He wishes he could take back the last 5 minutes because Clint is more in pain now than when they were literally hitting each other in the training dojo.

There is also that it takes him back to the time so long ago when he first met Barton.

He was also sporting a busted lip back then and so much more; on the receiving end of a severe beating by some carnies. Clint was only 14 years old, and had known only a life of violence and pain. Phil had arrived at twilight after receiving final orders to extract the boy, who had shown remarkable prowess at marksmanship, but was nowhere to be found.

He was about to leave when he passed by a trailer and heard a commotion inside. Someone was getting beaten up, and it did not sound like a fair fight. Phil had rushed in, tearing the door open and promptly evened the odds. On the floor was a teenage Barton, beaten to within an inch of his life, two very large and very drunk carnies looming over him. One of them had his pants around his ankles, and it didn't take 24 year old Coulson much to guess what was about to happen.

Then a rage had taken over, from seeing the inequality and unfairness of it all. He wasn't that much of a fighter then, but anger and a strong sense of justice can catapult adrenaline to amazing heights. One carny got his neck broken, and Pants-Around-His-Ankles took a bullet to his balls and both ankles smashed to smithereens with a hammer. Neck-Broken-Carny was Phil Coulson's first kill by hand, up close. It was quick and ruthless. His S.O. would've been proud.

If you asked Clint Barton about that day and he trusted you enough to answer, he would tell you the last thing he saw before he thought he was going to drift off into the world of the dead was Phil Coulson.

But then he woke up. Briefly, but enough to realize he was laid out at the back of a car, his head in someone's lap. And through the fog and pain, he saw that face again, looking down at him and smiling reassuringly. And then, the voice spoke, so calm and tranquil, so very misplaced in his world of chaos saying words of comfort, like "Hey, sport. Hang in there. Everything's going to be fine." And for some reason, the young Clint Barton believed him and struggled to survive, clinging to a promise made by a stranger.

And thus began one of the most complex and convoluted relationships in Phil Coulson's life.

Clint should have been one of the first people he showed himself to after his comeback, but he was in the middle of a deep cover mission and was gone for months. By the time he got back, he'd already heard from others about Phil's resurrection and was hurt he was the last to know. But who was he, really? He tried to picture who he was in Phil Coulson's life. Just another recruit, then just another student, then just another agent in training. And then, just another agent.

Just another agent with a fucking sob story.

He never told Phil anything, really. But he certainly tried to show him.

It was only thanks to Natasha's counseling that Clint learned to eventually let it go and agree to see him, upon learning they were in London and so was The Bus. Time had softened the anguish, and, the truth was, Clint simply missed him.

Phil takes another step forward so they're within arm's reach of one another. "Look at me," he says again.

Finally, the younger man finds the courage to. And in a split second, he's that 14 year old kid again in unimaginable pain who needs saving, and Phil Coulson is the man who is there at the exact moment he needs saving.

He pulls Clint into his arms, and Clint goes; willingly, and thankfully, and begins to sob. Phil's arms wind themselves around his shaking torso as he takes solace in the crook between Phil's neck and shoulder.

Coulson feels hot tears soak his skin, and the shaking begins. He hugs him tighter, and he figures this is when he should say something. He tries to pull back, but the younger man's grip is tight. They are stomach to stomach, chest to chest. Their sweat mingles and so does the heat of their skin.

Phil waits it out. It takes a couple of minutes, but the heaving quiets down to soft snuffles. And he becomes very aware that Clint is no longer upset as much as... aroused. He struggles not to panic and give in to his first instinct, which is to shove him away. God knows the last thing Clint Barton needs right now is rejection. Rejection from him. And Coulson, as hetero as he may be, cares too much about his former protégée to scar him again.

 _Must be another after-life crisis,_ Phil reasons. _Thanks again, motherfuckers._

"Hey," Phil says softly. He grasps Clint's upper arms and slowly extricates himself from their embrace, but remains close enough so that Clint doesn't feel abandoned or rejected.

Clint refuses to meet his gaze again; embarrassed at the show of emotion, and humiliated at his body's betrayal. He had not expected such a vicious and carnal response to seeing, smelling and touching Phil again. Because in the deepest recesses of Clint Barton's mind, the scent of Phil Coulson will forever be associated to a rebirth; at that time in his life when he woke up in the backseat of an SUV, lying in his lap and smelling Phil Coulson's aftershave and hearing the promise.

_Everything's going to be fine._

And it was.

But there's no denying Coulson felt his hard-on pressing against him, and Clint wished Phil would have pressed back. More than that, he wishes he wasn't so broken. Wishes he wasn't so fucked up in the head that he could be in love with a woman and yet want a man to love him too. He waits for the inevitable rejection; all he can really hope for is that Coulson won't be too cruel, or say something that will destroy him forever.

He can feel Phil looking at him, waiting for him to do or say something. His hand wipes away the tears from his eyes, stalling, praying he were anywhere else but here.

"Clint," Phil murmurs. It's gone on long enough. He realizes someone is due to walk in on them any second now.

And then, Phil Coulson does something very Un-Phil-Coulson-Like. Call it a desire to mind-fuck or psychologically torture; or maybe his inner sadist rising from the depths, whichever it may be has Phil close the gap between him and Clint Barton till they are mere inches apart. And ever so slowly, he reaches for a small drop of blood that's escaped from the suture on Clint's chin, and wipes it off with his thumb.

_What's happening?_

Time freezes for Clint. He watches, transfixed, as Phil brings the thumb slowly up to his mouth, locks their gazes, and tastes his blood.

Something inside Clint explodes.

It's the most erotic fucking thing that's ever happened to him. His breathing becomes ragged and tortured. Phil is looking at him, a barely discernible smile on his face, as though asking _Now what're you going to do?_

Clint knows _exactly_ what he wants to do.

But the doors hiss open and Agent Simmons walks in before he can do it.

 

 

 

 


End file.
